My scars re-open,
Every time I hear your name,
I wish that they would just heal.

You told me you missed me,
but that was a lie,
because the only thing you missed,
was the ability to play with my mind.

Okay, so—
I didn’t just walk out.
I ran.
Not in a cool, slow-mo movie way.
More like tripping over a slipper
and accidentally knocking over my own confidence.

From what?
Everything.
The noise, the drama, the people who say
“Can I give you some feedback?”
(Please don’t. I’m fragile.)

I ran from my to-do list,
from “urgent” group calls,
and that one aunty who asks
if I’ve “lost weight or just look sick.”
Honestly, both.

I ran when I saw my old teacher at the grocery store.
I ran when someone asked,
“What’s your 5-year plan?”
I barely have a 5-minute one
and it mostly involves snacks.

Call it immature—
I call it survival.

I didn’t pack much.
Just chips, a charger,
and a carefully folded blanket of denial.

No regrets.
Now I’m somewhere quiet,
where no one talks about promotions,
weddings,
or “what I’ve accomplished lately.”

Just me, my hoodie,
and a growing list of things I pretend don’t exist

Your eyes speak to me,
Whisperings of lust,
I view the tragedy,
With my love fufilled eyes.

what a load of bull
i wish that was the rule
that we only felt physical pain
i’d take that any day

some of the things that have been said
they constantly replay in my head
i look in the mirror
“talk about chopped”
“you look like a little kid”
“i think you’re gaining”
“your hips are uneven”

there’s been so much worse said
but it’s okay
they’re all just jokes anyway
so don’t take it to seriously
or you **** the party

“talk about chopped”
i wake up two hours early
to do my hair
pick an outfit
but it’s never enough

“you look like a little kid”
i put on layers of makeup
just trying to feel like my age
but i constantly feel like im trapped in a cage

“i think you’re gaining”
yeah i know
my usually flat stomach
is getting some rolls
i’ve already crashed out tho
and i kinda stopped eating
but its ok
i don’t mind it

“your hips are uneven”
gee thanks
that’s so sweet of you
the one thing a like about myself
is something you hate too

i give my self delusional confidence
and fake self-esteem
it sends me on a rush
to where i don’t care
about anything

but then the crash comes
and i realize it wasn’t real
and i try not to cry
i try not to scream
knowing that people only like
the delusionally dazed me

but it’s fine
it’s all just jokes
sticks and stones
i use them to break my skin
and my bones

playing me so methodically
in every single way
i know it’s only seventh grade
but that doesn’t make it ok

i’ve been waiting for you
and i’d go to you right away
all you have to do is say when

you’ve thrown me on a roller coaster
loop after loop
when you wanted to race
i didn’t know all the things id be chasing

all my friends give advice
and i know i should listen
but i say it’s fine
even tho it isn’t

wish i could let go of the idea
that you’ll come to me eventually
and maybe you will

elliot
that stupidly beautiful name
constantly in my head
all i think about when i go to bed

it’s so messed up
that i let you get away with this
but one day
you’ll finally see me
as the perfect thing

but by then i’ll be happy with the man
that has always seen me for who i am
and you might even cry
a cry filled with the agony you put me through

and you’re gonna realize
you really fumbled
but what can you do

boys will be boys
they’re stupid and blind
and they only realize what’s good for them when it’s to late
and you’ll be to late

Words make sense and numbers don’t
I try to count, but then I won’t
The digits blur, my thoughts plateau
                                      
                                      "What the hell is 9 x 4?!"

Mother says I need to practice,
“Mathematics covers all the bases!”
But numbers never spoke to me—
Static is all my ears percieve

Equations dance and then collapse
I trace the lines, but miss the gaps
I’m nearly thirty (yes, it’s true)
Still count on fingers—calculator too!

But give me words—I’ll make them soar
With metaphors and quiet lore
A single phrase can build a door.

The cash register waits patiently
Just how many twenty dollar notes are these?
It’s nearly 5:30, I wish I were home
Where silence stirs and words can roam.

Am I a poor sister,
for constantly pushing them away,
in for losing my temper too easily?

they'll ask me to check the closet,
or underneath their beds,
"there's a monster".

but it makes me wonder,
maybe the true monster is me.